


Evocative

by anotetofollow



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Morrowind, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompted drabble. Nephivah reminisces about her homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evocative

Modryn Oreyn did not especially remember Morrowind, and nor did he care to. He had been a child when his family had traded ash-choked Vvardenfell for the clean air of Colovia, and he had never felt in any way deprived by it. From the stories his parents had told him it seemed like there was little there but volcanoes and political infighting.

Nephivah seemed set on convincing him otherwise, however. In the years they had known each other she had made repeated attempts to introduce him to ‘their’ culture, telling him tales from her childhood or seeking out Dunmeri delicacies for him to sample. He had remained resolutely unmoved by all of them, although he tried not to say that in so many words.

One night she returned home with another of these unasked for gifts, as she often did after visiting the guild chapter in Anvil. She had befriended the captain of a trading vessel that docked there, and he would bring her goods back whenever he visited Morrowind.

Nephivah presented Oreyn with the dark glass bottle as if it were a holy relic. He turned it over in his hands, then uncorked it and sniffed at the liquid inside. It had an aroma not dissimilar to turpentine.

“Please don’t tell me I’m supposed to drink this,” he said.

“Of course you are,” Nephivah replied brightly. “It’s sujamma. You’ve had sujamma before?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’re missing out. Half of my most embarrassing anecdotes are down to this stuff.” She took the bottle from him, breathing in its aroma as though it were perfume.

“You’re hardly selling it to me.”

“I’m about to.”

She fetched two glasses from a cupboard and poured them both a small measure of the dark liquid. Oreyn held it to his nose again. Behind the overwhelming smell of alcohol there was the scent of spice and citrus, and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was vaguely familiar, and some small part of his mind stirred in recognition. Some half-forgotten memory threatened to reveal itself, but faded before he could pin it down.

“Sit down,” Nephivah said, pointing to the narrow bed. “Close your eyes.”

Oreyn did as he was asked, humouring her. He felt Nephivah move to sit behind him, her chin resting gently on his shoulder. She used one finger to trace patterns across the skin of his neck as she began to speak again.

“Picture this,” she said. “A city all of sandstone, with a wide river running through it. The air smells of smoke, a little. It’s not unpleasant. That clean, warm bonfire smell.”

Oreyn opened one eye. “Is that where you’re from?” Despite her patriotism, Nephivah had always been elusive when it came to discussing the specifics of her background.

“Shut up,” she said gently. “Keep your eyes closed. The crowds are thickest around the market and the docks. You have to wind through single file to find what you need. Sacks of dried fruit, barrels of shellfish in brine, fine woven cloth from the mainland. Drink.”

Oreyn felt a finger jab into his ribs, and realised the last word had been an order. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a hesitant sip. It was not as unpleasant as he had expected. The sujamma was rich and heavy, surprisingly sweet on the tongue.

“At night,” Nephivah continued. “You can hear the striders howling outside the gates.  They always sound so sad. Through your window you can see the insects caught on the other side of the netting. It’s always warm.”

Without being asked, Oreyn took another sip of sujamma. It was then that his half-formed memory from earlier gained some clarity. It was still faint, but he could recall the outlines of strange curved buildings, a dusty wind. Voices in another tongue. A stone hearth in the centre of the house. These images fled as quickly as they had come, leaving behind a strange feeling of comfort.

Nephivah briefly pressed her lips to the nape of his neck. “Our homeland is a wonderful place, Modryn,” she said.

“You miss it, don’t you?” he asked, opening his eyes and shifting to face her.

She considered this for a moment. “Yes and no. I don’t think it misses me.”

“Why not?” Oreyn knew he was treading on dangerous ground. She did not like such questions.

“That’s a story for another day.”

Raising her glass, Nephivah made a toast in Dunmeris, then drained it in a single swallow. The sujamma stained her mouth the colour of mahogany. Oreyn could reconcile her with his hazy remembrances, somehow. He wasn’t sure what the place in his mind was exactly, but he could imagine her there.

“Anyway,” she said. “I will desist boring you with tales of Vvardenfell for the evening.”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “Please. Go on.”

A smile broke across her face. “Very well then, sera. Get comfortable.”


End file.
